Memory Lost, Memory Found
by LouiseKurylo
Summary: Lisbon drives Jane to his Malibu house after Jane loses his memory after nearly drowning (S4,E10, "Fugue in Red"). Seeing the Red John symbol causes Jane to regain his memory of his family...and the murders. Mainly a conversation of things they need to say to each other.


This is my first fanfiction submission, although I've written for my own pleasure before.

**Who:** Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon plus minor appearance of Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt

**What:** Conversation between Jane and Lisbon after Jane regains his memory

**When:** After Jane downs and is revived (The Mentalist show S4, E10 "Fugue in Red")

**Where**: Jane's house in Malibu, then in car/restaurant

**Why**: Interesting, personal conversation after such a traumatic event

This is the conversation I imagine them having after Lisbon forces Jane to remember by bringing him to his Malibu house with the Red John symbol in the master bedroom. They share thoughts about his family's murder.

* * *

Dread settled over Jane as he climbed the stairs of his empty house, more unnerved with every step. He walked down the short hall to the bedrooms, hesitated and anxiously looked back at Lisbon. Jane forced himself to turn the knob. Moonlight gleamed off the Red John smilely face, dried blood stark against the white wall. He slumped in the doorway, transfixed as memories of the horrific murders of his wife and daughter engulfed him.

"I'm sorry," whispered Lisbon. After nearly drowning three days ago, dissociative fugue had suppressed Jane's memory. She ached in sympathy and regret, having forced him to remember by bringing him here. Quickly descending the staircase, Lisbon retrieved Jane's tea from the car. Back upstairs, she closed his hand around the styrofoam cup. "Drink this. It'll help."

Her mother had always made her drink water when she was scared or hurt as a child. That simple act disrupted and distanced the fear. Although any comfort would be slight, she desperately wanted to do something to ease his pain, even if only a little. Jane eventually sipped the tea, lost in his past. There was nothing she could do but wait. She said quietly, "I'll be outside." He probably didn't hear her.

Lisbon sat down on the front steps and recalled the day she first met Jane seven years ago. CBI had taken over investigating the Red John serial killings from SacPD. Her team was working the case. Red John had murdered Jane's family a year earlier. He stopped by CBI to learn of any progress in catching the killer. Now having known him for seven years, Lisbon appreciated how completely the murders had shattered him. Painfully tentative and self-effacing, the wraith who presented himself at CBI was worlds removed from the confident, vibrant, optimistic man who was now her friend. She rubbed her cross, praying that coming here wouldn't erase years of healing.

Minutes slowly passed, light ebbing as dusk deepened into night. Finally, Jane locked the front door and sat down beside her. He was somber, but composed. Forearms resting on his knees, he toyed idly with the empty cup, looking out into the deepening gloom.

Lisbon searched his face. She could tell he had regained his memory. Although sad, he didn't seem devastated. She was hopeful for the first time that day.

"I'll have to sell this eventually. I could never live here again," he said flatly, a simple statement of fact. A burly orange tomcat emerged from the bushes and brushed against his legs, purring. Jane absently stroked the cat.

She smiled, "You have a friend." Unsure of what to do, she wanted to draw him back to the present, help him leave–not re-live-the past.

Jane caught and held her gaze. "Yes. I do have a friend." After a moment he looked away. "This is Max, the family cat."

To Lisbon's astonishment, Jane spoke freely about the murders and their aftermath.  
Quiet and matter-of-fact, Jane said, "I held it together for a few months after the funeral. Sold everything in the house. The reminders were unbearable."

"Jane, you didn't have anyone after the funeral, did you? You cut those ties when you left the carny world." Lisbon thought better than to say the rest, _Being a psychic is a one-man show–so no colleagues, either. And since the reading led to the murders, there wasn't even the solace of work. _

"Every effort would be made to stop Red John. That gave me hope for a while. With all that, surely he would be caught, right?" Jane smiled painfully. "Naive. Angela and Charlotte were his ninth and tenth victims. Red John hadn't been stopped after the first eight, so why would two more make the difference? As the weeks dragged by I had to accept he wouldn't be stopped any time soon... Maybe never. That's when I lost it. I wanted to join my family."

Lisbon looked at him sharply, but his despair was remembered, not current. _The surprise isn't that he had a breakdown. The surprise is he recovered._ Lisbon squeezed Jane's shoulder gently. "Are you sure talking about it is a good idea?" _Though maybe it's good he finally _can_ talk about it._

He shrugged and continued his story. "I couldn't care for Max and gave him to a neighbor. Don't know exactly what happened next. I was out of it. Maybe the mail piled up. Someone called 9-1-1. I was taken to a hospital then committed to the asylum."

"Sophie Miller helped you through that?"

He nodded. "Sophie convinced me not to give up. Rather than hand Red John another victory, I should fight back, make him pay for what he did to my family. She saved my life. I was released six months later."

There was no mask, no glib facade. Jane had never been so open and vulnerable with her. Softly, "That's when you came to CBI?"

"Yes. I needed to know if there were leads or suspects. And how homicides are investigated and solved. I had a breakdown because I felt powerless after their murders. My recovery started when I vowed to see Red John dead. I had nothing more important to do than make that happen. ... You and Hannigan said chasing him would be a destructive obsession. I should start a new life, another family."

"Jane, I've seen survivors destroyed, consumed by hatred. Moving on works best for most people."

He shook his head. "Walking away would mean accepting that Red John can kill my innocent wife and daughter without consequence. Start a new life, a new family? Really? Starting another family is inconceivable if Red John is still out there, if it could happen again. My choice was never between revenge and a normal life. It was between revenge and death. Slow or fast, I _couldn't_ walk away and live with it."

"God, Jane." Lisbon looked away so he wouldn't see the tears filling her eyes.

"If I had other children, they would be my priority. Since I don't, I owe it to my family to hunt and kill Red John."

"Vigilante justice? What if everyone took the law into their own hands? What if you make a mistake and kill an innocent person?"

"We disagree, but I _have_ listened to you all these years. I killed Timothy Carter, thinking he was Red John. I took my time and wasn't blinded by emotion. He _said_ he was Red John. He knew details only the killer would know. And he knew O'Laughlin tried to assassinate Hightower, Grace, and you. He wasn't Red John but he surely was a disciple. My conscience is clear." Jane looked hard at Lisbon. "I did something you say I shouldn't have done. Do you hold that against me?" The question wasn't rhetorical. Jane waited for her reply.

Lisbon grimaced but answered honestly, "You know I don't. We saved Debbi Lupin's life and stopped Carter from working with Red John. I have a question for you, though: If the system does work, can you be satisfied with that?"

He looked away and answered slowly, "I don't know. I-I no longer need to personally kill Red John if I knew his execution would be swift and certain. But he could escape. Or get off legally. Or live for decades on death row. So Red John is mine if I get the chance,_when_ I get the chance. ... Do you recall Virgil's promise?"

"About Sam Bosco and his team? Virgil promised the CBI wouldn't rest till their killer was brought to justice."

"Rebecca is dead but she was just Red John's tool. How much time do you think Gale Bertram spends worrying about justice for them? Just wondering, Lisbon."

Lisbon frowned and looked down. The CBI director Bertram was the consummate political animal whose highest priority was his career. CBI continued working the case and Bertram would welcome taking Red John down. But there was no passionate commitment at high levels to get the serial killer. Lisbon had no answer.

It was dark except for moonlight. Jane got up and stretched. "We should go." In the car, he asked, "I know it's a long drive, but mind if we stop for tea – or dinner maybe?"

"I'm hungry, too. Do you know any–" She stopped short, realizing any nearby restaurant would bear memories of his family.

Jane seemed not to notice. "There's a restaurant five minutes away. I went there with my family. Quiet, good food, eclectic menu." He entered the location in the GPS after Lisbon nodded 'yes.'

Jane picked up the thread of their earlier conversation. "Teresa, why did you take a chance on me? I could not have inspired confidence when I first stopped by CBI. You eventually would have solved the Dellinger case. And that judge could have wrecked your career. Why risk involving me?"

"It was obvious you have a gift." Gently, "When you stopped by CBI, the emotional wounds from your family's murder were so fresh you may as well have been dripping blood. You asked Minelli and me about Red John. We dodged your questions, but you read everything you needed from our faces. Then you went on the case with me. You weren't even trying. Yet you saw more in the crime scene and suspects than four experienced detectives combined. In a few days you somehow went from walking wounded to dominating a room of hostile strangers. You spoke with passion and conviction, and you got Kim's confession through sheer force of will. I had a hunch. And I was right."

"I couldn't continue as a fraud, a phony psychic. But I didn't know what else to be. –How could I _not_ read people, _not_ know how they worked? How could I _not_ be the person I'd spent my life becoming?"

"You never had to be a fake psychic. Your talents would be invaluable in law enforcement, anti‑terrorism, espionage, insurance fraud, security–you name it. You could be a great psychiatrist if you had the patience for the formal education."

Jane snorted at the last idea and half-smiled. "I didn't know that eight years ago–and certainly not growing up. When you pressed me to help with Dellinger, it was my first inkling of what else I could do. _Solving_ your case was the first useful thing I'd done in a year. Sophie isn't the only one who rescued me. Thank you."

Embarrassed, Lisbon looked away and changed the subject. "What about Hannigan?" she asked, mentioning the agent who punched Jane. "I didn't know how devious you can be when we first met. Did you set him up?"

Jane began to answer, thought better of it, then started again with a faintly guilty air. "Y‑e-a-h, I baited Hannigan. I wasn't getting anywhere." He ran his hand through his hair, a reliable tell of frustration. "I asked to sit in a chair and wait till you had time to talk about Red John. You said it was against 'policy.'" He shook his head in disbelief. "I had to _make_ the CBI want to share the files, _make_ giving me access better than a lawsuit or bad press. I tried to avoid hurting Hannigan's career. If you recall, I owned up to provoking him." Cautiously, "Were you disappointed when he transferred?"

Lisbon sighed. "No. He was the weakest team member by far. Hannigan's idea of solving a case was banging away at a likely suspect till he confessed–never mind about guilt. Van Pelt's still green, but she's already more valuable than Hannigan. She has way more potential, too."

They pulled up to the restaurant and walked to the entrance. Lisbon's concern grew as Jane's tension rose. He relaxed when they stepped inside. _Maybe the memories aren't as painful any more._ They were seated and ordered their food.

Tentatively, "Jane, there's something I've wanted to say for a long time. About the murder of your family."

"Go ahead."

"I know you feel guilty. But you're shouldering blame that belongs to Red John and Red John alone."

"If I hadn't–"

She cut him off. "He would have killed others. It's horrible you lost your family, but the crime is his, not yours. Red John is evil and insane–no rules apply."

"I should have foreseen his reaction!"

"It seems predictable _after the fact_. Red John was a juicy news story that played well on TV. Violent crime is unreal to most people. Think about it! Kristina Frye _knew_ what happened to you and couldn't resist talking about Red John on air."

"Lisbon, I appreciate the thought, but it doesn't mitigate my part in their murders."

"Jane! Millions _knowingly_ do far worse things every day. A mother leaves her child in the car while dashing into a store. Someone has a few drinks and then drives. And it isn't even something you _did_, just something you_ said_. Most of the time–almost all of the time–a momentary weakness, a small lapse doesn't end in disaster."

"What difference does it make? My family died."

"All the difference in the world. Losing your family is hard enough. Feeling responsible for Red John's crimes? Breathtakingly unfair to yourself."

Bleakly, "Most people don't cause the deaths of those they love."

"Are you sure? If Cho had taken his calls, his best friend might still be alive. Van Pelt wishes she had been less gullible. Only by the grace of God did O'Laughlin fail to kill the three of us. Minelli wonders if Bosco's team would be alive if he hadn't reassigned the Red John case. Do you condemn your friends?" She looked down. "If–if I hadn't ignored the warning signs, maybe my father wouldn't have killed himself."

Jane straightened and drew back. He instantly read her decades of regret and guilt. "I didn't know that, Teresa. I'm sorry."

"To be human is to be fallible. You don't have perfect foresight. You didn't know a serial killer would murder your wife and daughter."

"But he did."

"Catholics are big on penance. Seems to me you've been doing penance for seven years. You've solved hundreds of crimes and prevented dozens of murders. When will you forgive yourself for being human?"

"I don't see it that way, but I will think about it. Appreciate your concern."

Emotion spent, she tried to ease the tension. "Hey! Be nice to my friend. He's a good man who was dealt a terrible hand."

They sat in silence for some minutes. Jane leaned back as his tea steeped. He looked intently at Lisbon. "Something is bothering you. What is it?"

"No there isn't."

He insisted, "Your forehead's furrowed and your eyes are shadowed. What is it?"

Lisbon looked away. "Yesterday night, you were happy not remembering. I promised to leave you alone. I'm–I'm sorry I couldn't honor that."

Jane studied her face. "The last three days are hazy, but I remember that. What changed your mind between last night and today?"

"I realized I didn't have a choice. In the last two years you've been attacked twice by people from your past-Dan Hollenbeck and Rachel Bowman. And there's always–"

They finished together, "Red John."

Lisbon continued. "It's dangerous with your memory intact. Without it, you have a target on your back and no chance to defend yourself."

Jane poured his tea. "Fair enough." He prompted, "There's more." It wasn't a question.

Lisbon looked down. Quietly, "I really want you to stay-" after the barest pause, "with CBI."

Their dinners were served and they started the meal. Jane resumed. "Lisbon, you have to stop feeling sorry for me. It's been eight years. The jagged edges aren't as sharp anymore."

Miserably, "You were happy till I forced you to remember."

"Happy?! I just wanted to avoid the pain. That's not happy, just ignorant. Remembering the murders is the price of knowing ten great years with my family." He reached across the table, took her hand and leaned toward her. Intensely, "If I just wanted to forget, I could do that with drugs or alcohol. And then I would lose everything. If you let me walk away, I eventually would have remembered anyway. I would have had to do it alone. Worse, I would have lost my four friends and blown working at CBI."

"You're not upset?" she asked hesitantly.

"I'm grateful." Her face brightened and he smiled approvingly. "There you go. Now," he released her hand and leaned back, "help me figure out how to make amends to the team."

"You don't have to do that. You nearly died and you lost your memory. They'll be glad you're back."

"Doesn't matter. You're all cops." He smiled wryly, amused at the situation. "Baby‑sitting a con man–an unreformed, unrepentant con man who's out of his mind to boot–it _had_ to be a strain. I need to make it right."

Lisbon walked into her office on Monday morning. A small, brown, card-stock box sat on her desk. She opened the lid and found eight bundles of twenty-dollar bills inside. _The missing $8,000 dollars from the savings and loan robbery! Jane replaced what he stole with his own money._

She intercepted Cho as he came in for the day. "Cho, the rest of the savings and loan money surfaced. Take this down to Evidence and have it locked up."

A corner of Cho's mouth quirked upward. "Jane's back? Really back?"

"He regained his memory. He's in the building somewhere."

"He okay?"

"It was a little rough, but he's good."

A few minutes later Cho returned from the evidence lock-up as Rigsby rolled in. Rigsby nodded to Cho, took his jacket off and hung it on his chair. He opened the plain envelope that sat on his desk. "What's this?" He read, "'An all-expenses paid weekend for two' at that fancy resort. Cool."

"What's the note say?" asked Cho.

"'Thanks for putting up with me and for the loan. -Jane.' Hey, I got my $63 bucks back, too." He grinned, as happy about the $63 as the weekend for two. "What did you get?"

Opening his envelope, "Same note, without the loan part. It's a season's pass for two to the Giants. I get box seats if they make it to the World Series. Oh, yeah. He repaid the savings and loan money he took."

Delivery men were escorted in by CBI staff, one to the bullpen, the other to Lisbon's office. The flat, 30" x 30" box was for Van Pelt.

"What is it, Grace?"

"Give me a minute, Wayne. Let me read the card first. It's from Jane. 'We may disagree on the inspiration, but the result is magnificent. Thanks for being a friend.' I have no idea."

Cho. "So open it already."

"It's really heavy." She pulled out what looked to be a picture and unfolded the bubble wrap. "Oh my gosh! It's beautiful!" The gift was a scale replica of the main stained-glass rosette window of the Notre Dame Cathedral.

The other delivery man set a tall vase of hydrangeas on Lisbon's conference table.

"Boss, what did he give you?" asked Cho. Rigsby and Van Pelt crowded in behind.

"Flowers." Lisbon opened the card and straightened in surprise. "Every week for a year." She read, "'Thanks for keeping me from making a big mistake.'"

An hour later, Jane quietly stopped by the kitchenette for tea. The commotion had died down and his colleagues – his friends – were busy with work. He sipped his tea, satisfied.


End file.
